This medium of art is a vice in my heart,
The softness of the canvas, paints a potent addiction.
Emotions flow even below the eyes,
Somehow the smallest brushstrokes pull me in and wrap themselves around me.
Can I separate the profession from my own creation?
Or will this easel I approach, trap me wear I stand?

It’s running and fighting.
Respectively.
Fighting the running to grasp some humility,
but fearing the loss of value in my true location,
my true state of being.
Do I fight just so I don’t become a disturbance,
My own mind dying, just so I don’t receive more rejection?
It is either protection or pride.
While still chasing that perfect child,
I listen to the lies that keep me from something that might actual help.

I can let go of what you did,
I can forgive pretty quickly.
The problem is,
You changed the way I look at myself.
Now I have to forgive myself for being the way I am.
And that,
That, I am not so quick at doing.

She cares about me.
She looks me in the eye and smiles so hard it makes me wanna cry.
I haven’t been so loved since, hell I don’t even know when.
And I don’t think it has anything to do with,
Who I am or how I see her.
The golden light just bleeds beneath her skin,
and she says,
“I just like to make you grin”.

Back up, restart,
Right after the emotion blacks out.
What was once received?
That put the expectations so high.
Lack of interest,
Lack of action?
What was the driving blow?
Why did the heart feel a wound if the skin never broke?
Confusion and kindness, better friends than killing and curiosity.
It once was thought that it might be,
Thought for good reason.
It once was thought that light could be seen,
Through these eyes of green.
After blue finally turned to brown,
The heart might restart to bleed.
But it seems these thoughts have only given way,
To the weight of missed and mixed messages.

My biggest fear is someone just as willing who loves to cut the strings.
I could be careless all day long, without a single ounce of shame to hang.
Quick explosions, no lasting flames.
The forest would be safe, I’d have fun playing games.

Why do you tempt me.
Just when things might be getting good.
I don’t find it as unwelcoming as maybe I should,
but rules keep me from wasting unspoken promise.
Except my amiableness won’t draw lines harsh enough.